


secret adventure

by neonosito



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Clubhouse shenanigans, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, this is just soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonosito/pseuds/neonosito
Summary: Bill: u awake??Stan: Maybe.Bill: haha dorkBill: wanna go somewhere??Stan bites his lip and smiles, his thumb hovering over the keys.Stan: Secret adventure?Bill: secret adventure :)Bill: b there in five





	secret adventure

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based on a prompt i got on tumblr that i kinda got carried away with....whoops. i wrote this in three hours and didn't edit it so apologies if its absolutely awful. if not, enjoy!

Derry is submerged in darkness, night having descended hours ago. Heat hangs in the air and plagues every household in every street, blankets tossed aside in favour of open windows. The faintest breeze shakes Stanley’s curtains. His skin prickles in reaction to the humidity, and he’s counting and naming sheep to get himself to fall asleep, desperate to give in to the lull of it to escape the airless room. 

Two pulses shake the bedside table. Light from Stan’s phone stings his dry eyes. He is snapped out of his near unconsciousness. Fumbling blindly for the device, he clumsily taps on the message and winces at the harshness of the white screen. The clock reads 2am.

Bill: u awake??

Stan: Maybe.

Bill: haha dork

Bill: wanna go somewhere??

Stan bites his lip and smiles, his thumb hovering over the keys.

Stan: Secret adventure?

Bill: secret adventure :)

Bill: b there in five

The bedside lamp provides a less harsh illumination when Stan turns it on, his socked feet landing on the floor gently. He picks out his softest jumper from his wardrobe, running the material through his fingers and throwing it on over well-worn jeans. The sleeves hang low and cover his hands. He feels giddy, like a kid waking up early for a school trip and packing the essentials. Bill hasn’t asked him out for a trip in a long while and he’d been getting antsy. Speaking of, his friend is a relatively safe but speedy driver, so Stan doesn’t waste any time in hanging around at the window waiting for him to pull up (he has one broken headlight and squeaky brakes, anyway, he’s not hard to miss). Shoes in hand, he hesitantly creeps down the stairs - avoiding the squeaky one halfway down - then exits out of the back door, shutting it softly and slipping his keds on outside. As there aren’t many cars around in Derry on this humid night, he knows the beat up silver truck is Bill’s. The driver’s side window is rolled down part way. An arm clothed in plaid is hanging out and tapping out a clumsy rhythm on the glass, following the tune of a song playing on the radio. Some classic that Stan can’t recall. Sparing one last glance at his sleeping household, he runs up to the passenger side, feet thudding against the grass, then the pavement, his cheeks flushed when he’s finally seated.

“Snacks?” He asks breathlessly in lieu of a greeting. 

“In the b-b-back.”

He gleefully grabs a coke and a bag of chips, the perspiration on the can making it slip in his hands as he chugs gratefully, the coolness a beautiful reprieve from the sticky air. Due to the fact that Stanley Uris is a kind and wonderful friend, he feeds Bill a twizzler while he tries for the second time to (unsuccessfully) start the truck. 

“Fucking p-piece of shit-” The engine roars to life. “Oh, thanks. So where are wuh-wuh-we off to? North o-or south?”

Stan chews on a chip, thinking. The truck is moving at a glacial pace. “Mmm...how long has it been since we’ve visited the clubhouse? Just us?”

“Probably more than sss-suh-six months.” 

“Clubhouse it is.”

Bill puts his foot down on the gas and looks over to Stan. He smiles goofily and salutes. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

The streets become a blur as the speed picks up, and Stan winds down the window to relish the breeze. He lets his arm hang out in parallel to Bill’s, feeling the warm air slip between his fingers and pass him by, fleeting and relieving. The classic radio station has been constantly humming in the background with every passing house. Stan’s ears prick up at a familiar song. Sensing Bill’s eyes on him, curious but shy, he sings:

“ _ What's with this comb caper, baby? Why do you wanna latch up with my comb? _ ” His voice is strong and wild, not soft and smooth like usual, and Bill jumps then laughs in response to the ridiculousness of it.

“ _ I just want you to stop combing your hair and kiss me! _ ” He cuts in, now Stan’s partner, fluttering his eyelashes and raising his voice in pitch. They can’t compare in skill - Bill’s voice is wobbling from the falsetto and he barely has a grasp on the song, a broken and clumsy duet, but theirs all the same. Stan throws his head back and giggles, forgetting the words in favour of listening to Bill’s lacklustre and slightly fabricated rendition. He feeds him another twizzler as a reward. They carry on in this way the whole drive, until the paved roads turn to dirt, until they aren’t marked with street lights, until the landscape becomes more rural. Bill slows and parks the truck at the entrance to the woods between two trees.

(When Bill offers Stan his hand when they’re stepping out, Stan absolutely does not flush at the feeling of their palms sliding against one another, at the thought of being able to move just a little more and track Bill’s thudding pulse beneath his fingers). 

Snacks in hand and phone torches at the ready, they navigate the bushes and various obstacles until they reach the clearing that Ben carefully picked out for his construction. Stan toes the dirt with his shoe, pressing down in different spots until he hears a familiar creak and the wood give way. He crouches and undoes the latch, exposing the neglected clubhouse. The ladder is still stable - a credit to Ben’s skill - and it’s clear nothing has been tampered with. Stan locates a box of matches and the few stubby candles that remain, filling the room with a meagre orange glow. He then snatches up a tin balancing on one of the crates.

“It’s dangerous to go in here unarmed. Take this,” he says seriously at the bottom of the ladder, holding a shower cap in front of Bill. It’s the spotted one he used to favour. 

Bill looks back, expression just as serious. “Sure. Catch.” He throws their snacks down one by one, Stan putting them in a pile next to the old tin then tossing the cap upwards.

“How d-d-do I luh-huh-ook?” 

His tousled red hair is poking out from the cap at every angle, a lot more unruly than his hair at thirteen when they actually entertained Stan’s idea. 

“Sexy.”

Bill’s face is barely visible in the night sky, but the choked out “Thanks,” is loud enough to make him smile victoriously. 

Stan claims the tyre swing, Bill the hammock. When he throws himself into it it groans and creaks dangerously, his legs sticking out halfway, revealing both his weight gain and his growth spurt. They shoot each other a nervous look, observing the fraying rope and rusty nails holding it in place. 

“We’re too old for this.”

“God, I know.”

Unlike silence with anyone else, their own brand of quiet is extremely comforting. Stan finds a slinky, and Bill occupies himself with prying open dusty comics, and it’s perfect in a way no one else could begin to understand. There’s no obligation to crack a joke or make small talk. The soft clearing of Stan’s throat alongside Bill’s tuneless humming makes for a strange harmony.

“Why are we here?” Bill asks, thumbing through a  _ Wonder Woman _ comic absent-mindedly. 

Stan is letting the slinky flop between his hands in a tinkling rhythm. “I was feeling nostalgic, I suppose. It feels so cut off from the rest of Derry. It’s like we’re actually alone.”

Bill nods in understanding, because he always understands. 

“...you wanna play truth or dare?”

“I’m sss-sorry, is this pl-pluh-place a time machine too?”

“Just answer the question, Denbrough.”

“Yes.”

“ _ All  _ you needed to say. You first.”

The hammock shakes again as he gets up into a sitting position eagerly, eyes alight like the child Stan was thinking of when he first put on the shower cap.

“Truth or d-dare?”

“Truth.”   
“What colour is your underwear?” 

He rolls his eyes. “White. Boring. Truth or dare?” 

“Truth.” 

“Did you cheat on that math test last week?” 

Bill fiddles with the rope nailed to the post. “...yes.” 

“I fucking knew it!” Stan crows, pushing himself a little further on the tyre and swinging his legs back and forth. 

“Richie offered to h-help!”

They fall into easy banter, exchanging questions and dares that mostly consist of inane truths. With the rest of their friends games like these always spiral into ridiculousness, leaving Stan uncomfortable and Bill non-verbal. But they intimately know each other’s limits, doing just enough to tease, but not enough to ruin the atmosphere. 

Stan dares Bill to balance the slinky on his head for ten minutes, the punishment being him having to chug the dusty beer he found stashed behind the swing (“How long has it been there?” “Probably about two years.” “Gross! I can’t dr-druh-drink that!” “You better have a good sense of balance, then.”)

They migrate to the dirt floor so Stan can monitor Bill’s progress and check for cheating. They’re cross-legged, knees touching, and Bill looks so unbelievably ridiculous with a slinky balanced on top of his head and it shouldn’t be so endearing but it  _ is. _ He could easily scoff at Stan, dismiss his dare, but he indulges his dumb demands and even laughs at them himself. There's churning in his stomach that hasn’t been caused by those disgusting beers Bill was subjected to drinking after two minutes (he laughed too hard at Stan prank calling Ben, knocking the toy to the floor). He allows himself to ask more personal questions when Bill decides on a truth. He likes pushing him a little. Seeing him flustered, stammering and bright red, proves that he has an impact on Bill. His words alone leave him more undone than being asked to read aloud in class, and that fucks him up. 

“Truth or dare?” 

“Truth.” 

“Why did you invite me out tonight?” 

“Because I like suh-sss-seeing you.” 

“Do you invite me to do this every time you’re missing me? Thinking about me?” 

Bill fiddles with the discarded comics on the floor. Tears one of the front pages, fiddles with the binding. Stan is worried he’s gone too far. 

“You only get one truth.”

He sinks his teeth into his lip and exhales.

He lets it go.

Bill’s truths and dares remain excruciatingly mediocre - 

_ What’s your favourite colour? _

_ How many marshmallows can you fit in your mouth? _

_ I dare you to stuff one of those cheetos up your nose. _

But Stan continues to toe the line between their usual affair and something more.

“What’s your favourite thing about me?”

He’s only half-teasing, he expects Bill to say something casual like his hair then move on, but the reply is sooner and more intricate than he imagined.

“Your sense of humour. I d-d-don’t really g-get it sometimes, I don’t think any of uh-us do, but. I like seeing y-you laugh.”

Stan coughs. “Oh.” 

“That’s j-just one th-th-huh-ing, though...I like a lot of things about you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Okay.” Bill barrels on as if he hasn’t just punched a metaphorical hole in Stan’s chest, leaving him winded. “Truth or dare.” 

“Truth.” 

“What’s your fuh-f-favourite thing about  _ me? _ ” 

_ Give me a notepad and a few hours and I’ll get back to you,  _ he wants to say. 

“Your loyalty. Your kindness. Your selflessness. You’re just so…” he almost grasps at the air for the words. “Infuriatingly wonderful.” 

“That was four things.”

_ Shit. _

Stan sniffs, ignoring his burning cheeks and hoping Bill will too. “I was feeling generous.”

The expression on Bill’s face is soft,  _ so  _ soft, and he resents it. Mostly because he doesn’t know  _ why _ . Why Bill expresses himself so freely, so lovingly, just for him. They’re barely eighteen, he shouldn’t be being looked at as if he’s the moon and the stars and more. The intimacy makes him sweat. Unfortunately, it’s addictive. Stan wants to push him away but pull him closer, beg him to never stop looking at him like he’s a word of consent away from kissing him then refusing to let go. Bill’s  _ look  _ reserved only for him is like being drenched in sunshine. The heat gets too much, sometimes.

“Stop looking at me like that.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s just...it’s too much.” 

Bill looks down guiltily. Stan wishes he didn’t look so much like a kicked puppy. 

“I like it! Probably a little too much, though.” 

“Good. Because I don’t w-w-want to stop l-looking at yuh-huh-ou like th-that.” 

And there it is again. Dry mouth, churning stomach. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Do you want to kiss as bad as I do right now?”

He’s putting his whole heart out on display at 3am on a friday and  _ god  _ this was just supposed to be a fun night out, but Bill has been staring at his mouth every time he so much as licked his lips this whole time and Stan isn’t going to pretend he hasn’t been doing the same. 

“Yes.”

His breath catches. Bill’s eyes are open and honest.

“You get a second turn. Truth or dare,” he says slowly, cautiously.

“What? Stan-”

“ _ Truth or dare? _ ”

“I don’t know...truth? Stan, can we please-”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“Not truth.”

Bill is searching his face for something, any indication of what the hell is going on, and Stan can see the moment the lightbulb goes off in his head. 

“Dare.”

“I dare you to kiss m-”

Bill puts his heart and soul into kissing Stan, as he does with most things. His hands search everywhere - the fuzzy material of his jumper underneath to the cool skin of his hips, and Stan responds with his hands on Bill’s chest, bunching the soft flannel, moving up to put them at the nape of his neck and pull him in closer. He tastes of twizzlers and stale beer when Stan licks inside his mouth, but his firm grip on his waist - assuring and just on the edge of too much - compensates for it. Stan lets Bill settle him against the unstable stack of crates so he can cup his face and kiss him deeper. Their bodies are flush against one another as Bill settles in the vee of Stan’s legs. The meagre candles are burning down, the flames nearly snuffed out, and it’s only when they pull apart for breath that they realise they’re almost submerged in darkness. 

“Truth or dare,” Stan murmurs. Bill makes a noise of disappointment and chases his mouth, managing one more kiss before Stan pushes him back onto his ass.

“Dare.”

“I dare you to drive me home before my dad finds out and kills me.”

Bill smiles and tucks a lock of hair behind Stan’s ear. He kisses his nose sweetly. “Sure.”

The ride home is filled with hesitant touches - Bill reaching to put his hand on Stan’s thigh, Stan fixing Bill’s crooked shirt collar. The sun is threatening to come up by the time they get back (Stan suspects Bill drove slowly to give them more time), and they both secretly scowl at the Uris household in the near distance. Bill cuts off the engine. 

“Well.” Stan reaches over the console and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Until our next adventure.”

In the haze of an early morning, two teenagers part, both drenched in the orange sunrise. 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: billdensbrough


End file.
